I saw the driver of the Hampstead ’bus once, near St. Giles’s Church—an
old, fat, red-faced man sitting bolt upright on the top of his ’bus in a
driving storm of snow, fast asleep with a huge waterproof over his
great-coat which descended with sweeping lines on to a tarpaulin. All
this rose out of a cloud of steam from the horses. He had a short clay
pipe in his mouth but, for the moment, he looked just like Memnon.